Drink, drive and avoid

My colleague sent me an email that appears to have originated with the assistant brand manager of a make of beer at South African Breweries (SAB). The person’s name, designation and contact details are included in the email, which I assume was destined for a few internal people at the company. It has, however, made it to friends, family and others who clearly do not work for SAB.

The email reads as follows:

ROAD BLOCKS 13 NOVEMBER 2009 – Please tell everyone you know to stay out the Fourways Area tonight….(Friday 13 November) Areas: Cornerhouse pub, William Nicol, Main Road – Baron…….Witkoppen- right up to Sunninghill…..they are going huge tonight with the drinking and driving.

It will be with the SAB testing station so if caught, they will take blood immediately.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Assistant Brand Manager: XXXXXX brand of beer

The South African Breweries Limited
Tel:              +27 555 5555
Fax:             +27 55 555 5555
Mobile:          +27 (55) 555 5555
Email:           XXXXXXXXX@za.sabmiller.com

DRINK & DRIVE AND YOU WILL GET CAUGHT.
A reality check from SAB

The take-home message from this correspondence is that, at all costs, one should seek to avoid police road blocks rather than, say, drinking within the legal drink-driving limit or even using a designated driver. We learn, too, that a beer manufacturing employee may gladly ignore the message at the bottom of his email signature which subtly warns people of the world of pain and suffering they might suffer upon being caught drinking and driving.

I do hope all 800-odd Facebook friends of this individual received the responsible message he sent out, including some management at SAB who I hope don’t believe the drunk-driving problem in South Africa has absolutely nothing to do with messages like these.

Adding fire to your work performance

Last night my friend H hosted a few of us for dinner at her gorgeous new place. Upon discovering that the chicken she’d purchased from Woolworths for the occasion was disgustingly rotten and sulphurous, she ordered Nando’s and all was right with the world (apart from the mouldering, raw fowl now lining her kitchen’s rubbish bin).

As we munched on our chicken etc., Maggot announced that she would be raising her per-hour work rate after establishing that a fire dancer she knows charges more per hour than she does. The privilege of watching this unkempt, unhygienic, stoned man twirl fire poi (albeit artistically, I’m sure) is more expensive that the hourly research rate of an individual who is reading for a PhD.

There is really only one answer, the four of us decided: Maggot is going to have to incorporate a fire poi act into her feedback sessions with clients. Henceforth, presentations on the results of her research will include the standard feedback component during which Maggot will inform on the current status of the situation and what can be done to alleviate it, after which a fire dancing module will follow.

During the fire dancing module, Maggot will drop her notes/shut down the PowerPoint presentation, hop on the nearest desk, light up some paraffin-soaked material attached to chains, swing them around at random while attempting not to damage furniture/clients, and conclude by setting fire to her own very curly hair.

We all thought this was a winning idea.

I’d certainly pay her fee.

She may, however, have to invest in a few wigs.

Later, as H heated up the Woolworth’s apple pie (not rotten, not sulphurous), I discovered the latest in oven glove-ware…the silicone oven mitt.

This just looks rude to me.

Fortunately I did manage to  capture

H’s Finger of God ^TM move for  your

viewing pleasure.

Vanity Thy Name is Matthew Maynard

Matthew Maynard may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he’s a man who knows what side is his best in photographs, apparently:

Man provides photo for his own wanted poster

LONDON (Reuters) – A British man on the run from police sent a picture of himself to his local paper because he disliked the mugshot they had printed of him as part of a public appeal to track him down.

South Wales Police had issued media with the photo of Matthew Maynard, wanted by officers investigating a house burglary, as part of a crackdown on crime in Swansea.

When it appeared in the South Wales Evening Post, the 23-year-old sent the newspaper a replacement photo of himself standing in front of a police van. They obligingly printed it on the front page.

The police thanked him for helping them in their appeal, saying: “Everyone in Swansea will know what he looks like now.”

I like that he chose to submit a photograph of him standing in front of a police van.

You’d think it’s mustard.

Oi vey.

Dunno about you but trying out pseudo-mustard is about as appealing as doing Bikram yoga in the Sahara desert.

Then again, I eat pseudo-food at times and even verge on thinking it might be food – case in point is Steers.

Your average groceries list

Last weekend, as I kept my friend Maggot company in her kitchen as she brewed some tea for me, I cast an eye or two over her mini-white board on which she writes her groceries list.

Anyone who’s ever compiled a groceries list will acknowledge that there are certain items one would expect to find on such a list, for example:

• Milk
• Sugar
• Fruit
• Tuna
• Cereal

Other items may find their way to the list, or might be stored in one’s brain in order not to raise the interest of people who may happen upon the list, such as:

• Condoms
• Tampons
• Sanitary pads (with wings)
• KY Jelly
• Viagra

Then, dear readers, there’s the list I found in Maggot’s kitchen, which reads as follows (see Figure 1 below):

Figure 1 – Maggot’s groceries list

Shall we review?

Let’s!

• Decaf tea (hmmm, not unusual, probably a good idea for that evening beverage before bedtime.)

• Barley (we-ell, ok then, I guess barley is used in soup or whatever)

• Canderal (I’m with you, a necessary evil.)

• Canned potatoes (potatoes come in cans? Should we be eating potatoes that are available in cans?)

• New stove (ah yes, a standard on a grocery list, usually placed just below ‘milk’. If one can’t find a new stove, move on to the next item on the list – sugar)

• Space curtains (again, an item easily available at your local Pick ‘n Pay, don’t accept anything other than curtains sporting moons and asteroids and comets and planets embroidered with love and care upon them.)

• Time switch for geyser (sorry, I’m stick stuck on the space curtains.)

So as you see, Maggot’s grocery list is rather complex, as well as sparse.

At least I knew I was getting decaf tea.

Mirror, mirror on the wall…

I imagine that we were all wondering, to a greater or lesser degree, about when Joost van der Westhuizen would finally confess to starring in the infamous sex video featuring him apparently receiving oral sex and sniffing CAT.

After months and months of denial, that day came today when the former Springbok rugby captain announced that it *was*, in fact, him.

Let us not all faint at once from non-astonishment.

It should come as no surprise that Joost made this confession now, just ahead of the release of his book ‘Spieelbeeld’ (directly translated as ‘mirror image’, according to Hyphenator – the English version of the book is called ‘Joost: The Man in the Mirror’), in which (Rapport newspaper alleges) Joost relates the anguish he experienced after the story was made public, complements of Heat magazine.

Rapport quotes him as saying, “The fact that I was living a lie was eating me up inside.

One can be certain that hundreds more copies of his book will be purchased now that people know they’ll be getting a version of the truth that we all knew, anyway. An extremely sneaky ploy – perhaps Joost is trying to get all the cash he can should his wife decide to divorce him.

The bit in the Rapport story that made me snort was Joost’s decision to visit local evangelist ‘uncle Angus’ Buchan in June, with his wife Amor and their children, to ask for advice. “Uncle Angus made me realise that I must stand up and be a pillar for my family,” the ex-rugby star said.

It’s unclear what this holy directive meant to Joost, though. Perhaps it meant publicly lying to his wife for a further one to two months until August, or blaming dark forces around him while threatening to sue various magazine editors and the like for fabricating this story.

Perhaps, too, it meant remaining in cahoots with ex-bouncer and current private investigator – and current liar – Mike Bolhuis. When the story first broke, Bolhuis said Joost had passed a polygraph test “with flying colours”.

Then, in March this year, when Joost decided to drop extortion and defamation charges regarding the video, as well as civil action against Heat and Rapport, Bolhuis the lackey said a number of factors had led to the decision to advise his client against taking action: “…(on) reflection we realise that such claims, given South Africa’s weak judicial system, could be stretched out for a long time. Every time something happens in court, the media reports on it, and the whole unsavoury incident is dredged up again. “

Ah yes, that pesky “we’re lying and going to be found out if we go to court” rationale.

So Joost was unfaithful. Who gives a fig?

Why he decided to turn it into such a palaver once he was found out, is what sticks in my throat. Who is going to trust him again?

Julius and Jansen have a chat

That Julius is being sneaky again. His support of University of the Free State (UFS) rector, Jonathan Jansen’s actions regarding the Reitz Four, has left whites and blacks alike wondering what the hell the ANC Youth League leader is up to.

Much of the government and civil society have criticised Jansen for allowing the punks to return to campus, while still facing crimen injuria charges for making black staff at an UFS hostel eat meat that allegedly had been urinated on.

But now, in a surprising move, Julius Malema has announced that he fully supports Jansen remaining in his position as rector, despite calls for Jansen to step down.

"Jansen is one of our own," Julius told students at UFS, "We cannot feed Jansen to the enemy."

Just who this enemy is, is unclear. After all, Julius’s very own party, just days before, called for racists, including Jansen, apparently (although the party will dispute that this is what was meant by the statement), to be “shot and killed”.

That aside, Julius has been clever. Through this clear show of support for Jansen, Julius has confused certain contingents of outraged stupid whites who may not be sure where to place him on the ‘racist/nonracist’ and ‘stooped/klevah’ continuums, while granting outraged stupid blacks the smug pseudo-benevolence of being better than that racist Jansen.

I look forward to seeing who’s next on Julius’s list.

Why I’m glad I don’t have to date 21-year olds

Following my neighbour’s party last Thursday night, I heard a couple of the young guys who live there (I think there are three but I might be mistaken – it may only be the two of them) having a chat on their balcony. Actually, that statement is not entirely correct: what I heard really amounted to one of them lecturing the other on the topic of the former’s amazing prowess as a fighter.

The conversation, as I heard it, proceeded as follows:

Dickhead 1: Ja hey, this oke was like 35 and I FUCKED HIM UP. I fucking punched him so hard the oke was K.O’d. Like, I was 19 years old and he was fucking 35, and I just FUCKED HIM UPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!

Dickhead 2: *mumble mumble mumble*

Dickhead 1: I’m not bragging or anything but I could fucking take down Max. He’d give me a smack but I would FUCKING FUCK him up. I’ve been in my fair share of fights in my life and I know what I’m doing. He’d be K.O’d, I would fuck him up.

Dickhead 2: * mumble mumble mumble*

Dickhead 1: *stands up* …Like this and then like this….

*scuffle scuffle, smack*

Dickhead 1: Shit, sorry bru, I didn’t meant to hit you. Ja, but like that. I fucking smacked him so hard I FUCKED HIM UP.

After that I stuck my head in the toilet and flushed repeatedly until I no longer heard this arrogant, linguistically stunted young moron forcing his flatmate to listen to his tales of fighting brilliance.

I don’t remember young guys being this inane when I was younger, and I feel so sorry for the women who will end up on date with him. Then again, if the women who attended his party last week are anything to judge by, the date would consist of Dickhead 1 stroking his biceps lovingly while the date would be looking around the room, gossiping about allegedly less attractive counterparts who attended whatever third-rate community college-type institution they did.

Mature womanly bowels

Ok, so even I can recognise that there’s a bit of a scatological obsession unfolding on this blog, thus I promise this will be the last thought on the matter for a while, promise.

Yesterday, an article on gastroenterological problems crossed my desk. In it, the author proclaimed that while seven-year-old boys delighted in farting, girls were consistently embarrassed by it, often blaming the dog for the offending odours, but that farting became a sign of respect or acknowledgement of maturity in older women.

Farting. Maturity in women. Welcomed.

Those three words just don’t go together in my mind, and it sounds like bollocks to me. I’ve never yet met an old lady whose flatulence is a source of pride to her, but perhaps I know the wrong old women.

Personally, I’ll continue to blame whatever pet is on hand, no matter how ‘mature’ I become.

Can’t think of a headline

As you’ve all been waiting with antici…pation, I feel I should tell you that I have repaired the flusher handle of my toilet, successfully. After carrying around the faulty part in a plastic bag in my hand bag for a few days, I meandered into a hardware store yesterday and picked up one that works.I have no way to prove to you that this was a successful DIY job, so I’ll just have to let you trust that I DID IT, OK??!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Maggot, Violet Wiemaraner and The Ex-Capetonian met at the Radisson Blu in Sandton on Saturday for a cocktail or two. A gorgeous new hotel made infinitely classier by the presence of four guffawing women yelling obscene things at one another.

Ok, unfortunately for me (perhaps fortunately for you) I have nothing more to say.
Au revoir.